


Destroy me

by drifting_star



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Nobody Dies, Or maybe somebody does, Unrequited Love, or maybe not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-03-06 12:11:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18850816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drifting_star/pseuds/drifting_star
Summary: "-I’m not scared. –he says, and there so much determination into his voice that he almost believes himself. He opens his eyes slightly, getting cut by the bright light he encounters, just to see him one last time, knowing that he wants him to be the last thing he looks at. He smiles slightly, because he knows everything will be fine."Deniss starts coughing up flowers and he doesn't know what to think about it. Problem is, people try to ignore what they can't understand.(note: I don't believe this pair is real nor I want it to be.)





	1. The end is just the beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, I know you're not going to believe me, but I don't actually ship them. I know that this couple isn't real and, please, I don't want it to be. I know what their real relationship is (I mean, I support a great father-son relationship; yes, I'm sorry if it's weird!). I like to write about them because they're interesting: it's really challenging to write about a couple that's forbidden, that shouldn't be and that has to hide from the rest of the world. At least, that's my opinion. 
> 
> So, forgive me for this absolute mess and try to bear with me. I'm sorry if this is too much (I mean, there's a bit of half-dying and a lot of sad people, but like, on the making out-other things matter, don't worry, I actually don't like to write about these things, if it happens, it's just kind of mentioned. I'm scared of what you're going to think, okay?!).
> 
> English's not my first language, so, forgive me for any eventual mistake.
> 
> Uhm, forgot to mention: the story begins after the men's free program at the Worlds 2019 and everything written in cursive is a flashback.

“I won’t let you die!”, it’s a mere whisper, but he knows he’s screaming silently, because he doesn’t want anybody to perceive the agony in his voice. He doesn’t know what hurts the most: the pain he feels when he tries to draw a breath, or seeing such torment into those deep eyes.  
   
Maybe he _is_ dying, but he doesn’t care. It’s strange to say, but he isn’t scared; maybe this was bound to happen. It’s solely the result of his own stupidity, of the irrationality of his heart. He’s glad this is almost over; he thought he was going crazy in these last months, when he couldn’t even stop thinking about his unrequited love, because something was always there to remind him.  
   
He tries to speak, to answer, but he ends up coughing up yet another Sakura flower. He’s always loved those flowers, but, right now, he hates them like he’s never hated anything else.  
   
When he looks back up, he can see that the agony has only doubled, the worry is almost overflowing from his eyes. It might be terrible to think, but he’s glad that, if he has to die, he’ll do it in the arms of the most important person in his life, everything he cares about.  
   
Being held by him makes him hurt less, helps him ignore the pain. He looks like he wanted to say so much and yet can’t find the right words. He doesn’t blame him; it must be terrible to have to witness somebody’s condition deteriorate until the point of no return. To see someone you care about die. Someone you care about a lot but not enough to save them. He feels his shaky fingers on his cheeks, and he sighs, closing his eyes, without even realising he’s doing so.  
   
“No. Open your eyes.” only when he hears those words he understands what is going on. He’s slipping away, but he doesn’t understand why. He’s positive he’s not choking yet. Maybe he’s letting himself go, because he wants to spare him such a sight.  
   
He feels his hand caressing his face and he tries to open his eyes, only to fail miserably. Another coughing fit starts from his throat; nothing can stop it. He just wants to lay there and forget everything; he suddenly feels tired. Maybe he’ll finally find peace if he falls asleep.  
   
Yes, he’s dying, but he doesn’t know if he’s ever felt this happy. He knows it’s terribly foolish to think something like that, but it doesn’t matter. The only place where he can be truly happy is in his arms; where he doesn’t belong but aches to be all the time.  
   
“Deniss. Please.” this ought to be the most pained whisper he’s ever heard in his entire life, but it’s not like he can decide and change what is happening to him. His love won’t die as easily as he is doing; because it’s a stubborn and mad love, and it doesn’t want to let itself be extirpated from his soul that easily. And now he’s dying.  
   
But he’s not scared. He can’t be. He doesn’t deserve to be. He’s brought this onto himself. He’s hurt the people he loves. He’s hurt himself.  
   
He _won’t_ be scared. He doesn’t know how but he finds both the courage and the strength to lift his own hand up and finding Stéphane’s, which’s still on his cheek, interlacing their fingers.  
   
“I’m not scared.” he says, and there so much determination into his voice that he almost believes himself. He opens his eyes slightly, getting cut by the bright light he encounters, just to see him one last time, knowing that he wants him to be the last thing he looks at. He smiles slightly, because he knows everything will be fine.  
   
He starts coughing again, and this time it doesn’t stop, it keeps getting worse, until he’s unable to breathe.  
He’s slipping farther away every second now; he doesn’t think he’s much time anymore. The last thing he’s time to do, in his last lucid moment, before falling into a deep darkness from which he doubts he’ll ever come out, is pronounce three words, three words which mean too much and nothing at all. Those three words he’s never found the courage to say before, because he was afraid it would make everything worse, make it _real_ , but, right now, it doesn’t matter, anymore, he doesn’t care, anymore. He’s dying. _He’s dying._  
   
“I love you…”  
   
––  
   
 _It starts at the most unexpected moment, like most things do._  
   
 _The first time he actually notices something is wrong is at the_ _Internationaux de France 2018._ _He’s walking down a dim-lighted hallway, hearing the footsteps of other skaters around him (his head is messy in that moment, and he is feeling uneasy and bitter). A scratching feeling starts hoarding up into his throat, until he’s almost unable to breathe. He stops in his tracks, sensing the urgent need to cough, like there was something stuck in his lungs. He puts his hand in front of his mouth, trying to be polite, but, when he looks down on it, he’s taken aback for some seconds._  
   
 _In the centre of his palm, there’s a small light pink petal. That’s definitely not normal. Did he swallow a flower without realising it? He can’t find any good explanation for the phenomenon. In the end, he decides to ignore it, sure that it will never happen again. How stupid, he should have payed attention from the very first moment._  
   
 _He throws the petal aside and starts walking again, looking at the ground. Maybe how he’s feeling is almost more unexplainable than what’s just happened. It isn’t supposed to be like this, but he can’t help it._  
   
 _He feels so disappointed in himself. He can’t do anything good. Perhaps, after the last season, he’d thought that he could be… adequate. Not like he rested on his laurels; he knows he has to fight to gain something. But, it looks like, this year, fighting is not enough._  
   
 _Whatever, maybe he’ll manage to learn something from this; and then, it’s not like this season has already ended, he will get back up. Or at least, he hopes. He still has to skate his free program after all, even though he doesn’t think it will help. Quite the contrary, to be fair. He doesn’t know what to do; he really doesn’t want to let anyone down._  
   
 _(In the end, he does terribly and he can’t help but be disappointed, knowing that he let_ him _down and that he’s never meant for this to happen._  
 _When he’s sure nobody will see, he coughs up another petal.)_


	2. The light of night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Realistic timelines? Things that don't happen in an hotel room? WHO KNOWS THEM. 
> 
> Anyway, hey, welcome back to this randomness. As you'll see in this chapter, I clearly don't know the difference between coughing and throwing up, but just go with it and pretend everything makes sense. Moreover, you'll se me trying to pretend that I actually understand how it feels to be in love. 
> 
> Actually, this story was not written to be separated in different chapters, but I did it anyway, so excuse me if the beginning is weird.
> 
> Thanks to who left kudos and comments, I really appreciate that.

_It doesn’t repeat itself many times after that, and he actually stops thinking about it, telling himself that it didn’t matter, whatever that was._  
   
 _The moment it gets all terribly wrong, and when other people start noticing this problem, is right during the Euros._  
   
 _The night after skating the short program, he can’t sleep, he keeps tossing and twisting into his bed, troubled by too many thoughts and a headache that doesn’t want to go away. He knows he could have done better and it remarkably bothers him. The problem is that he always could have done better, but never_ does _better. He’s stuck in a limbo where he can’t do anything right. He can’t stop thinking about_ him _(like he ever thinks about anything else), and that he’s disappointed him yet another time._  
   
 _He never shows what he’s thinking about, but, after two seasons with him, he’s learned to read him like an open book. It isn’t difficult to understand that he sees it the same way as he does._  
   
You could have done better. You just didn’t try. You didn’t put enough commitment into it. If you spent more time actually training instead of looking at me all the tim… _No, he definitely didn’t think the last part._  
   
 _He laughs sourly, biting his bottom lip. God, why is he so stupid? Maybe that’s why he’s slipped so down in the ranking. Because he’s an idiotic teenager who really had to… No. He’s not going to think about_ that. _He’s already angry and sad enough. But, he can’t help that._  
   
 _Sometimes he likes to let his mind wander to some memories, these that he holds dearly near his heart, like they were a precious gem. He likes to remember the glint of a smile on his face, when he didn’t even realise he was doing so. Remember the weight and the warmth of a hand placed softly on his neck, functioning as a soothing balm for his anxious mind, making him forget everything but that contact. Remember when he held him closer than he had to, his hands on his waist, and he was happy he could have an excuse to do so. Remembering everything and remember that it’s really nothing. He wishes it wasn’t. He wishes…_  
   
 _The thoughts in his mind get suddenly cut, like they were a frail red threat, and he starts coughing terribly loudly, so much he’s afraid he’ll wake_ him _up, and he’d have to explain too many things. After some seconds, it seems that the coughing has stopped. But it only gets worse._  
   
 _He gets on his feet as fast as he can and hurls himself out of the bed, trying to reach the bathroom before it’s too late. He doesn’t really think it through, when he slams the door after him._  
   
 _He’s barely time to reach the toilet and to sit near it, before, half-coughing, starting to throw up a worryingly enormous amount of Sakura flowers. Yes, this time, they’re not only petals, they’re full grown_ flowers. _And he’s to admit that it’s considerably terrific._  
   
 _He observes them for some seconds, ignoring how disgusting this might seem, as they float in the water. He notices that, quite strangely, they’re completely dry –or, at least, they surely were before falling in there. He’d thought they would be all squashed and sickening, but no. They look as good as they would on a plant; it doesn’t make sense at all, but he has others things to worry about right now, so he doesn’t stress on it._  
   
 _He falls back against the wall, trying to regain his breath, feeling all sweaty and shaking, like he would if he’d just thrown up normally. The problem is that he didn’t and he doesn’t understand what’s wrong with him. It isn’t normal, it doesn’t take a PHD to understand that._  
   
 _How is it possible for flowers to get into your lungs? If he told a doctor that, he wouldn’t be believed. That’d sound like a story made up to get attention, for some reason._  
   
 _He closes his eyes, resting his head against the wall and hugging himself, feeling terribly cold all of sudden. He almost manages to calm down, when the door opens quietly and he hears somebody come in._  
   
 _He doesn’t open his eyes. Maybe, if he pretends to have fallen asleep,_ he _will ignore him and go back to bed. But, Stéphane isn’t that stupid._  
   
 _“Deniss?” hearing that voice makes him shiver, so deeply that it reaches his bones, his soul. “Are you alright?” he would give him an award for questions that are useless, considering that it’s not so hard to see the truth, if it only existed._  
   
 _He groans, not knowing why he’s behaving in such a childish and sarcastic way._  
   
 _He decides to look at him, finally, and he sees him sitting near him, ignoring the coldness of the tiles of the bathroom or the fact that, from his point of view, he’s just thrown up. On his face, he can read all the concern and his love (if it only were the type of love he longs for…)._  
   
 _He doesn’t answer, he forgets to, he stares at him for a whole awkward minute, his mouth slightly agape. Stéphane reaches out and gently takes his face into his hands, putting one on his forehead, to check his temperature. Deniss doesn’t react; he somehow suddenly feels inebriated, almost drunk. Every sound gets cut out of his head, everything he feels are those fingers, which burn hot on his cheek._  
   
 _This isn’t helping at all; maybe, it’s making things even worse. He senses the hand on his forehead push back his rebellious bang and warm lips on his skin. He quickly opens his eyes, feeling the effect that kiss has on him even in his heart, almost not metaphorically, he can feel it being squashed by an invisible hand. He can sense that odd feeling into his throat come back all of sudden, but he doesn’t want to make a fool of himself._  
   
 _He’s moving frantically in his place, without even noticing it, trying to find a way to escape; to escape from that room, to escape himself and his stupidly strong emotions. He realises he’s doing so when Stéphane takes him into his arms and holds him close, keeping one of his hands on the back of his head and one on his back._  
   
 _Deniss lets out a shaky breath, scared he’ll do something terrible wrong that will destroy ever single good thing in his life. Something that’ll make him need to move out, to change coach and forget everything he had there. The scratching in his throat disappears, but he has other things to worry about right now._  
   
 _“What is it?” this time, the voice hurts his ears, like it was an annoying buzzing. He doesn’t want to talk; he doesn’t want to do anything._  
   
 _He pushes his head against his chest, almost in an involuntary reflex, like he only needed that to be okay. He hears –feels –Stéphane sigh, and he knows he’s worried, but there’s nothing he can do about that._  
   
 _He doesn’t know what’s happening to him; he doesn’t understand why he keeps coughing up flowers, he only knows that it happens and he doesn’t have a logical explanation for it. Perhaps it’s like what your relatives kept telling you when you were growing up: don’t swallow the seeds or the plant is going to grow inside of you. Yeah, sure, but that’s a bit unlikely. And, by the way, he doesn’t remember swallowing any Sakura seed._  
   
 _“Come, you need to sleep.” Stéphane says, and lets him go, before getting on his feet and extending a hand to him. Deniss looks up at him, and he wonders if somebody else has ever looked this beautiful standing in the middle of a bathroom, with nothing to illuminate his face but the slightly bluish light coming from the window. Maybe, he forgets he needs to breathe for some seconds._  
   
 _He snaps out of it, and decides to get up on his own, helping himself with the wall behind him. When he catches the glimpse of a light-pink colour in the toilet with the corner of his eyes, his heart sinks. He doesn’t want him to find out what it’s happening to him._  
   
 _He tries to casually stretch out and he flushes the toilet: he only has to hope he didn’t notice that something was wrong. He looks back at him with worried eyes and then surpasses him to enter the room, observing the ground like he’d found something really interesting in it._  
   
 _He’s almost reached his bed when Stéphane catches his arm, stopping him so suddenly that he almost loses his balance. He turns around slowly, scared once again that he’ll do a disaster._  
 _“Sleep with me.” that’s a terrible phrase to say, he hopes his coach realises; it makes a mess of his heart, first of all. And then, whatever, he knows he doesn’t mean it like that, he’s used to do these gaffes, he can actually recall some episodes when he said something that could be terribly misunderstood. Or maybe he just noticed because… Well._  
   
 _He doesn’t know for how much time he stands there, occasionally blinking, while the thoughts in his head keep running one after the other._  
   
Don’t do it. What are you, six?  
You’re stronger than this; you can’t let yourself be this pathetic.  
You know he thinks of you like a son; what would he do if he knew?  
Fuck this. What do you have to lose?  
   
 _No, he’s not strong enough to say no, even knowing perfectly that it will only hurt him, because it’s nothing but for him it means everything. He’s weak, and maybe there’s nothing wrong in that._  
   
 _He casually nods, half-shrugging, and keeps his mouth shut, scared of what will come out if he tries to speak. He lets himself fall on Stéphane’s bed, without thinking, closing his eyes and simply waiting for him._  
   
 _The mattress shifts under his coach’s weight, and, a few seconds later, he’s already being dragged back into his arms, feeling the sheets being pulled over his body. He groans and finally collapses again, pressing his face into the crook of his shoulder, trying to focus on the moment, knowing it’s unlikely to happen again, ever again._  
   
 _He senses his arms around his body, as he holds him closer, like he was afraid that he’s going to break apart if he lets him go; his hands on his back and his cheek buried in his hair. He can feel his heart: a calm and controlled heart, completely in contrast with his, which is beating like crazy, like it wanted to jump out of his chest. This is a mess; he is a mess._  
   
 _But, right now, he doesn’t need to worry, it doesn’t matter if he throws up flowers and he feels like he’s about to die. At the same time, he’s in his only happy place. That sounds so terribly corny, but he doesn’t care._  
   
 _He breathes in his scent and lets himself being lulled to sleep by the rhythmic sound of his heart, without knowing that, sooner that he’d ever think possible, his secret will be discovered and his life will start to crash down on him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway, this is cheesy. Sorry for eventual mistakes.


	3. Either you die or your heart does

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, boy, it's been a hot minute, hasn't it? Jk, I know it's been almost a month, I'm sorry. I'm finally done with my finals so I will update every week now, I was just waiting to have more free time. Well, I hope someone's still reading this. 
> 
> Anyhow, plot, who knows her?

I let you down once again, didn’t I?  
   
_He knows that’s a question he’ll never ask for real, if not to the dark places of his mind. But, as a matter of fact, he knows that’s true, he doesn’t need to have a confirm._  
   
_He shakes his head, sighing, and keeps walking. That part of the hotel’s hallway is too bright; the light almost starts to pulse inside his head._  
   
_He glances at Stéphane with the corner of his eye: some part of him wants him to take him into his arms again and to be told that everything will be alright; another one just wants to be left alone, tired of all these sounds, all these lights, all these people. And to stop overthinking all the time, but, unfortunately, nothing’s there to stop him._  
   
_He feels so… enraged with himself he can’t even explain it. Maybe it will always be like this, he’ll always feels like this. Disappointed. Angry. Sad. Unlovable. Like a failure. He knows his coach thinks the same, he must do._  
   
_He doesn’t know what hurts the most: knowing that he’s disappointed his coach, or knowing that he’s disappointed who he loves –is in love with. Well, seen that they are the same person, it’s not really hard to answer. It’s only that, sometimes, they’re not the same person. It’s hard to explain, it’s almost impossible, it’s what he feels._  
   
_He can’t stop looking at him, wondering what he’s thinking about, wishing he could get into his head and know every single thing he thinks about him, even it probably won’t be such a good idea. Because he’ll see that he indeed thinks that he’s a failure and that- that he doesn’t love him back. That’s not something new, but, sometimes, he likes to give himself the benefit of the doubt. Hoping in vain for something hopeless._  
   
_He’s so lost into his thoughts that he doesn’t realise that it’s happening_ again _. He stops all of sudden, coughing his heart out –or, to say it better, coughing his heart out in the shape of a flower. He closes his hand as quickly as he can, but it’s already too late._ He’ _s already noticed that something is wrong: he’s that annoying ability to understand how someone is feeling (well, most of the time) and when something’s off._  
   
_“Deniss? Are you okay?” he curses under his breath and tries to hold his hand behind his back as much as he can, without thinking about it._  
   
‘I’d be okay if you stopped saying my name like _that_.’ - _he thinks, a bit exasperated. What does he have to do with himself? It also bothers him quite a lot that most things he hears him say in the last days is if he’s alright._  
   
_Damn it, he’s not a kid, he doesn’t need constant supervision; he doesn’t need another parent, two are enough, if you may. He answers, saying that he is, in fact, okay, but maybe he does that a bit too hastily, and it doesn’t help at all._  
   
_“What are you holding?” Stéphane is eyeing suspiciously his hand, as if trying to understand. He doesn’t say anything back, he stares at him, without knowing what to say or what to do. He should try to find an excuse, but nothing comes to his mind, he doesn’t know why._  
   
_He takes a step back, as if he was scared, but he just isn’t_ thinking _. His mind gave up on him. Maybe without even realising it, his coach steps forward, in a mechanical reflex._  
   
_It must be a very strange sight for other people. They’re standing in the middle of a hallway, they’re not talking. Only staring at each other._  
   
_Deniss almost wants to laugh: he feels like_ his _eyes were scorching his soul, reading it and trying to find the problem; he always does that. It’s fairly surprising that he’s able to read every single piece of him but he still hasn’t understood he’s in love with him, considering he knows it’s quite obvious, he’s been doing an awful job at hiding it._  
   
_He doesn’t realise he keeps backing away until his back collides with the wall. He unintentionally gasps, looking at Stéphane with what he knows to be a terrified stare. As if he could ever hurt him (as if he could hurt him more than he already did)._  
   
_His coach seems to be extremely hurt by his reaction, as he reaches out a hand and tries to brush his cheek. Deniss flinches hard, like he’d just been burned where those fingers skimmed over his skin; almost at the same time, he feels the pain come back, and, before he’s time to do anything, he doubles over and throws up cherry blossoms once again._  
   
_Well, fuck. Now, there’s no way he can hide this, anymore._  
   
_––_  
   
_Call from Stéphane Lambiel to Mihoko Higuchi_  
  
**_Hello?_**  
**Mihoko, hey. It’s Stéphane. Stéphane Lambiel.**  
**_Yes, I know who you are. What’s the matter?_**  
**I need your help with some… weird medical issue.**  
**_I can try, but I don’t know if I can be any help._**  
**I just thought that… Well, it involves Sakura flowers, so I thought… I don’t want to sound racist, it’s just that, considering you’re Japanese…**  
**_Hey, calm down, it’s okay. Ask away._**  
**Okay, it might sound really strange and mostly unlikely, but… What does it mean if somebody, uh, throws up flowers? Like, a lot?**  
**_Oh._**  
**Is that a bad thing? I mean, is that something serious?**  
**_There’s a disease, called the Hanahaki disease, and it’s so rare that many believe it to be just a legend. It affects people who suffer from unrequited love…_**  
**Unrequited love?**  
**_Yes, when loving someone hurts so much that the pain is too much for their hearts._**  
**And that’s it?**  
**_No. The disease can… It can result in… death._**  
**…Is there a solution?**  
**_Two, actually: either the love becomes requited, or… Well, the disease can be removed through an operation._**  
**That’s not, so difficult, then, no? At least, the second option.**  
**_Actually, it is. In most cases, with the disease, the romantic feelings for the other person are also removed and sometimes… The affected person can lose the possibility to ever be able to love again._**  
**So, either you die or your heart does?**  
**_Yes, and some people would rather die than lose their emotions._**  
**Okay… Okay. Thank you.**  
**_Wait. Can I ask you something? Have you been throwing up those flowers?_**  
**No. It’s Deniss. He’s been sick for a while now. I need to discover who he’s in love with. I… don’t know. I hadn’t noticed he was suffering from unrequited love.**  
**_Oh._**  
**So, I might be able to save him.**  
**_I’m sorry, Stéphane. I’m really sorry._**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why Steph called Mihoko. Probably because he saw they were Sakura flowers? I don't know. Doesn't he know the internet? I don't know. I wanted it to go like this. I also don't know if I actually described the disease correctly, and, if I didn't, I guess this is just how I decided I wanted it to be. 
> 
> Anyhow, Mihoko definitely knows what's going on, don't you think?
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


	4. Truth hurts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This makes absolutely no sense and I'm sorry if I couldn't do anything better. And again, as you can see, I have no idea how it feels to be in love so I'm kind of jumping blindly into unknown ground.
> 
> This part takes place in a random place at a random point in time between the Euros and the Worlds.

_“You can’t keep avoiding me!” he sounds frustrated, so terribly frustrated, however, he doesn’t care. He knows he’s only trying to find a solution, trying to make him feel better. To save him. But he can’t. If he only knew, everything would be different; he would realise there’s nothing he can do._  
   
_He’s been thinking about it all night and all day, trying to find the right words to say, without success._  
   
_When he asked him who he’s in love with, he tried to look laid-back, telling him that he absolutely doesn’t think that he loves somebody and he didn’t know what he was talking about, shrugging it off as nothing even while feeling his bones freeze under his flesh, knowing that it was the beginning of the end._  
   
_Stéphane let him be, but he already knew he would attack him again with all those questions. He understands him, he knows he’s trying to fix everything; the problem is that he doesn’t know that it all happened because of him, he would never guess something like that._  
   
_He doesn’t answer, he doesn’t know what to say; even if everything’s already broken, he doesn’t want to destroy it even more. He knows he won’t stop pushing, until he’ll have to scream out the reason, barely keeping in the tears, feeling like dying again, because of the ache in his heart and the pain in his throat._  
   
_He looks at him, sighing deeply and passing a hand through his hair. How can he keep lying to him? He’s not strong enough; he’s never been._  
   
_Stéphane gets closer to him, and, this time, he doesn’t move back, he doesn’t try to escape. He’s tired of running; away from him, away from himself, away from the feelings in his heart. Something he’s never been, and never will be, able to escape are those damn flowers._  
   
_Those damn flowers who made him sick, those damn flowers that made his secret come to light, without letting him time to protest. Maybe what’s worse is realising that those flowers are not the cause of his illness. Love is. They’ve always told him that love hurts, but he’d never thought that it could actually_ kill _you._  
   
_He shivers at the thought. He’s dying. He’s dying. He starts feeling his heart beat into his head, and closes his eyes, suddenly scared; because there’s nothing he can do. He knows he could remove the disease and end this hell. But he doesn’t… He doesn’t want to lose his emotions. He knows he wouldn’t be able to love ever again._  
   
_He looks up, more quickly than he ever thought he was capable of, only when he feels his coach’s hands on his waist. He didn’t even realise he’d let him get this close. In his dark eyes, he can see that he’s worried and trying to look for an answer; and he could find it, it would be so simple to find it now, but he doesn’t want to let him._  
   
_“Deniss.” he says his name in such a sweet way that he almost feels himself melting, as cliché as that might sound. “Who do you love?” he pulls himself together, knowing that he’s a step away from making a disaster; but, on the other hand, he knows the disaster has already been made, so many months ago, when his stubborn heart decided he wanted to take his own path. If he could go back, though, he doubts he would change a single thing._  
   
_It doesn’t matter how this whole situation will resolve, he won’t let go of this love so easily. It might sound stupid, because this is damaging him so much, but it also heals him back every second. Nobody ever told him it would be easy; nobody ever told him it would be this difficult, either._  
   
_Not like someone ever told him anything. Maybe it’s a common thing everybody knows: don’t fall in love (with your coach, just, don’t)._  
   
_He recognizes he still hasn’t moved, and that he totally should. This needs to stop; he can’t keep lying straight to his face. Maybe he deserves to know what he makes him feel when he holds him like that. Or when he simply touches him. Well, he does know, partly. He’s seen him throw up flowers on his shoes like it was a perfectly normal. He doesn’t know that it is his fault._  
   
_“Isn’t it obvious?” he says, and, without intention of doing so, it’s mostly a reflex, he briefly glances at his lips._  
   
_He sneaks free, pushing past him and stepping further into the room. He holds a hand to his neck, feeling the pain increase and trying to breathe slowly and calmly, trying to prevent another accident._  
   
_He notices too late that his other hand still isn’t free, he doesn’t know why. He turns back to Stéphane, because he’s stopped talking, moving, maybe even breathing._  
   
_That’s when he realises that his coach has tried to keep him in place, grabbing his wrist. For some seconds, they look at each other, without saying anything, they just_ stare. _And that’s when it hits him. He can still feel his heart beating in his head._  
   
_His. Heart. Is. Pounding. Furiously._  
   
_And he can feel it, too. He’s understood. He knows, he can see it in his eyes, he knows because he hasn’t said anything, because he doesn’t know what to say._  
   
_It’s over. He will extra careful from now on. He will be careful when he touches him. He will be careful when he looks at him. He will be careful when he talks to him._  
   
_It’s over._  
   
He knows.  
   
_“You.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, thanks for reading. Love it? Hate it? Let me know. 
> 
> Does it make sense? No. Bye.


	5. In a cage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, did you like the cliffhanger? Probably not, but it didn't last long. 
> 
> First things first, I absolutely hate this chapter. I wrote it and I wanted to write it like this, but I hate it, maybe because it feels random and a bit too much in the context. 
> 
> Since I like to jump forward in time every two seconds, this doesn't take place exactly after the previous chapter, but after the men's short program at Worlds (well, you know how it went), some time later. 
> 
> Anyway, I hate this so much, let me know if you hate it too. 
> 
> Sorry for eventual mistakes that escaped my review.

_All sounds come to his ears muffled and confused, like he was prisoner of a completely closed box. Maybe that’s how he feels: he’s into a cage and he can’t get out._  
   
_It’s funny how, right now, the fact that he’s sure he’s about to cough out his lungs isn’t what hurts the most. He’s a failure. He’s a damned failure. He can’t believe how badly he’s done._  
   
_On the other hand, he knows this internal disappointment will pass and that he’ll eventually try again; because he’s not going to give up so easily, that’s not how he’s made._  
   
_He thinks somebody said that he’s a fighter, and he wants to believe it. But, in this moment, it feels like he’d fallen too deeply to be able to ever get up again._  
   
_He leans back, trying to breathe, and it’s so difficult, that he’s scared he will… Well, he’s scared he doesn’t have much time, anymore. Perhaps it’s true: he needs to kill this love before it kills him._  
   
_The problem is that, after all, he’s not that strong. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s desperate, he really needs to admit it. He wishes he could forget this love, but it’s not easy at all, when, every second, he’s reminded of that._  
   
_He doesn’t want to think about it. He closes his eyes, trying to concentrate on the silence and on the coldness of the tiles he’s sitting on._  
   
_He hears yet another knock on the door, and he puts his hands into fists. He’s not going to answer; he doesn’t want to face_ him _. He’s angry and sad, he only wants to be alone with his thoughts, for once. Damn him and his intrusiveness._  
   
_He tries to stop himself, but to no avail; he doesn’t want to say anything, but at the same time he wants to say… everything. Any word that crosses his mind, every thought he ever had. He needs to get rid of all the feelings bottled up inside of him before he explodes._  
   
_“Go away.” he says, and there’s so much ice in his voice, that he actually startles himself, because he’d never meant to sound this harsh, but he’s so done. With everything._  
   
_He’s a failure. He can’t take it, anymore._  
   
_“This happened to me because of you.” for some seconds, he’s taken aback by his own words. He doesn’t want to be cruel. But now he’s started and he’s not going to stop._  
   
_The next snarl that comes to his lips is blocked by another violent cough, so powerful that it makes him bend forward. It makes him even angrier._  
   
_“Just because of you.” and he knows it’s a lie, but he can’t help it. Stéphane has no fault, he’s done nothing to make him fall in love with him (well, no, he’s done everything he could to make him fall, without even realising it), and he’s simply trying to help as he can. But he’ll never get it, he’ll never understand what it feels to love somebody so desperately, so fiercely that it feels like you have a raging fire burning in your soul, that will never be consumed but will consume you faster than you think possible._  
   
_For him is very simple to tell him he has to remove those feelings: he’s not the one who has them; on the contrary,_ he _knows that he’s never felt so alive, even if he’s slowly dying. He’s not going to give up his emotions._ Whatever it takes. _Even if they hurt him both emotionally and physically. Life is not that simple._  
   
_“I’m_ dying _because of you.” he’s raised his voice a lot since he’s started to speak, and now he’s almost screaming, trying to get free from all this frustration and anger, and everything that comes with it._  
   
_He drags himself near the door, getting on his feet with difficulty and placing a hand on the wood, as if it could help his words get through more clearly and more sharp. Maybe he wants him to feel all the pain he’s feeling, to make him understand…_  
   
_He doesn’t know, that maybe he needs help. That he needs to be saved but, at the same time, he hopes that he’ll leave and never come back, because he can’t keep living like this. He doesn’t really know how it happened, but it’s like there was suddenly an indestructible wall between them and they can’t get through it and fix everything. Perhaps these wounds are too deep and can’t be repaired._  
   
_He puts his forehead on the currently tangible wall and sighs loudly. “You’ve ruined my life…” he doesn’t even have time to finish the sentence, because, all of sudden, the door flies open and he tumbles forward._  
   
_If he thought for even a second that he was about to fall on the floor, maybe he’s actually undervalued the strength of their relationship and overrated the force of that invisible power._  
   
_Stéphane’s arms catch him and pull him to his body. He doesn’t have time to react, to protest, and maybe he doesn’t want to; he can sense his lips on his temple, his breath on his skin. If he tried to hold him a little bit tighter, he would probably break his ribs._  
   
_“Stop.” that’s the only thing that he says, but the message is clear. He knows what he’s doing, he knows how he feels, and he won’t let him delay on these thoughts._  
   
_Deniss sighs again, but, this time, he sounds resigned. He can’t fight him; he needs him too much, more than he cares to admit. He can feel his fingers on his face once more, as he moves back to look at him._  
   
_He decides to keep his eyes closed for a bit more, pretending this is just a dream. His coach caresses his cheeks sweetly, as he says:_  
   
_“Have you been crying?” he hadn’t realised it, but now he understands that it makes so much sense._  
   
_Of course, he did, of course he really had to show his infinite fragility once again to him, the only person he wants to hide it from. Of course, he’s been crying, because he’s heartbroken and enraged and he doesn’t know what to do; because he’s sure he’s over and will never get back up. Of course, because he’s dying and he doesn’t have much time, anymore._  
   
_He slowly opens his eyes. He doesn’t really want to look at him, not now. He doesn’t want to see the pity in his eyes, knowing that he probably looks miserable, with his pale and sick-looking face. He asks himself how far he would go to try to save him._  
   
_He’s no idea of what he would do: maybe he’ll force him to get the disease removed; like, violently try to do so. Maybe he would even try to make him believe that this love isn’t unrequited. How funny it would be; perhaps he’d like to see him pretend._  
   
_Perhaps he could actually fool him, because he’s so desperate and hopeless that he’d take anything; but he could never fool the flowers, this sickness. A fake love wouldn’t save him, not even with the best intentions._  
   
_He doesn’t blame him for not loving him back; he knows he’s trying his best to help him get out of this situation. Sometimes he wishes he was somebody else. Sometimes he wishes he was just a teenager in middle school in love with the most unsympathetic “bad boy”; how simple it would be, then. He would probably let him die, without caring._  
   
_Unfortunately, this is not a cliché-novel, this is real life. And in real life, he_ does care _. And Deniss knows that he’s not only hurting himself; he’s also hurting him, and this weighs heavily on his heart._  
   
_But he doesn’t see any trace of pity in his eyes; he sees an immeasurable sorrow, which is glistening in his irises, like a distant and dying star. He realises in this moment how close they are, and also that Stéphane’s hands are still holding his face._  
   
_He doesn’t know what to answer to his previous question; or what to do, either. He knows he should back away as fast as he can, but a force too great to fight is stopping him from doing so. It’s like there was a magnet keeping them together, gluing them in the same spot._  
   
_Maybe he doesn’t want to move. Maybe, he doesn’t have to move. Maybe they can stay there, closer than they should be, in this mid-darkness, without worrying about anything. They don’t need to, the world could as well disappear, they –he doesn’t need it._  
   
_Yes, he should really stop thinking and fantasizing. There’s no “we”, there’s only “him and me”, and it’ll never change._  
   
_He’s so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t realise that his coach has leaned closer to him, and that the distance between their lips is dangerously small; he notices only when he feels his fingers caress his cheek once again, with so much tenderness it almost hurt him physically._  
   
_This whole situation is so strange that he nearly gives in to the furious beating of his heart; there’s nothing he wants more than to meet those lips halfway and lose himself to the raging fire inside his soul. But he can’t do that._  
   
_Because this is exactly what he was afraid of. He’s just pretending, he just wants to save him; but he needs to understand that it doesn’t work like that, and that there’s nothing he can do. Kissing him would probably make everything worse and would probably aggravate his illness._  
   
_For some seconds, he thinks he might have imagined everything, but he turns his head to the side anyway, because he doesn’t want to risk it. Stéphane’s lips collide with his cheek and he understand that, had he waited a moment more to react, he would probably be kissing him right now._  
   
_No, he can’t think about it, this wouldn’t be right. For both of them: because he isn’t loved and Stéphane merely feels forced by the gravity of the situation to try and make him believe something that isn’t true._  
   
_He lets out a startled gasp when he feels his lips move to his jaw line and continue on his neck. He closes his eyes for a second, thinking that maybe this is solely a feverish dream and this isn’t happening at all; he stops a trembling sigh before it has time to leave his throat. And then, he decides that he needs to be strong; because this is_ wrong.  
   
_“No!” he screams, maybe a bit too loudly, and he shoves him away violently, before trying to step towards the door, without knowing where to go or who to turn to; feeling alone and heartbroken, because this is all a lie, a lie that can’t work._  
   
_He doesn’t get far away: the pain in his lungs comes back so quickly he doesn’t even have time to be prepared. And, for a moment, he really can’t breathe, he just pants frantically, trying to find the air he’s lost, while falling on the ground hard, hitting his knees in a way that would probably hurt if he could feel something else apart from this_ suffocation.  
   
_He puts his hands on his legs as he coughs up flower after flower, unable to stop and starting to wonder if this is actually the end. When the floor in front of him is almost completely hidden under a sheet of pink flowers, he lets himself slump down, closing his eyes and resting his head on the rough moquette._  
   
_It all happened so fast that he doesn’t know what to do, how to react, how to fix this. Maybe he’s waiting for the end to come, because he’s so tired of suffering and he only wants this to be_ over _._  
   
_Suddenly, he feels a pair of arms slightly lifting him off the ground, enough to half-place him on a pair of legs; all of sudden, the coldness disappears and everything becomes warmer, and maybe, he feels a bit safer._  
   
_“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” the words get repeated, over and over, until they’re the only thing he can hear, everything else becomes foggy and confused._  
   
_He feels his thumb touch the corner of his mouth and he’s held closer to his body right away. He knows what’s happening: this time, with the flowers, blood has come out of his lungs._  
   
_He wants to be scared, but, for some reason, he isn’t. Maybe because he knows he’s protected by someone, in this moment, and that he doesn’t need to be afraid, because everything will be fine…_  
   
_That’s what Stéphane always used to say, once, when he was_ sure _that everything could be fixed, when he still believed in him, when he still believed in them._  
   
_But, now, those words would mean nothing, because nothing will be alright. He’s dying and he’s a failure. He doesn’t know what hurts more. Dying or knowing that the last thing he did before dying was disappointing him yet another time._  
   
_It’s in this moment that he realises something. He’s dying anyway_ ; it doesn’t matter if he’s just pretending _. It doesn’t matter, because, he can have everything he’s wished for._  
   
_Maybe it’s not morally correct, but he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter if this love is fake; it’s something. He lifts his hand up, without watching, until he finds his hair and buries it in those dark strands, feeling them like silk between his fingers._  
   
_He opens his eyes again, hoping that he’ll still be able to do that for a while, at least. He’s spent these past months feeling like he was dying and coughing up flowers, running away from his feelings and closing and opening his eyes, like he was falling asleep more than he needed to, over and over. Maybe, it’s time to live a little._  
   
_He looks at him with a new determination in his eyes, to which Stéphane answers with a both confused and worried expression. Their lips come precariously close to each other again, but maybe, this time, it doesn’t matter._  
   
_“Destroy me.” he says, in a low voice, sounding ruthless and strong-willed_. Make me feel alive, before I die. _Their lips meet faster than he ever thought possible._     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm sorry. 
> 
> What am I doing? What are they doing? I don't know. I never know what I'm writing, my brain kind of decides as I'm doing it, hallelujah. So, this is a mess and I don't even know how it happened; but now at least you know where the title of the fic comes from, now. 
> 
> Don't think too bad of me, please.


	6. Please, don't leave me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I'm back after a million years, as always, hallelujah. 
> 
> Well, the last chapter sucked, and I'm not even sure this is better, what do I have to say? Anyway, don't think too much of it, they kind of just kissed for a while and nothing else, really, I wouldn't go that far. I don't really know what you're thinking of that, but I want to say that the plot of the story just gets worse from here. 
> 
> Just try to enjoy this, I guess. 
> 
> P.S: As I said, I have no idea how Hanahaki works, so I went with the flow.

_He wakes up with a startle, gasping for air for some seconds, before calming down and blinking fast, trying to understand what is going on._  
   
 _When he remembers what’s happened the night before, he blushes and bites his bottom lip a little. He can’t believe he actually did that, he actually kissed him._  
   
 _He knows it doesn’t mean anything, that he’ll still die, but, maybe, he’s forgotten he’d to for a while, lying to himself and pretending that everything will be fine._  
   
 _He sighs and passes a hand over his face, sitting on the bed, trying to think about what to do. Perhaps he should leave this room, the problem is that he wouldn’t know where to go; perhaps he could leave to take a walk around for a bit, before training. It’s still quite early, after all._  
   
 _He doesn’t think he can face him, that he could look into his eyes and talk to him like everything was normal. After all, he knows he’s used him and his pain and his will to save him to get what he’d always wanted; he’s used him and he knows this is wrong._  
   
 _It doesn’t matter, he’ll pay for this anyway, and soon, it looks like. He shouldn’t have done this, it hasn’t made his life better, it’s just made it more miserable, if that’s possible._  
   
 _He thought he could be happy for a while, but he feels so much agony he can’t even describe it. To make matters worse, he suddenly remembers the disaster he’s made on the ice the day before, and it sends him in an even darker place, if that’s possible._  
   
 _He absently starts to scratch his own arm, almost to the point when it hurts, but it doesn’t matter. He knows he should take his decision and leave as fast as he can, but it’s like there was an invisible force keeping him there._  
   
 _He winces when he feels a hand being placed softly on his back, and a voice pulls him out of his thoughts._  
   
 _“Why were you crying?” it’s a weird way to start a conversation, especially if you… Well. He didn’t think that would be the first thing he would’ve said, considering everything that has happened and his words and the fact that the whole night has passed._  
   
 _He thought that would have been long forgotten, along with a million other details that are incredibly insignificant in a situation like theirs. He doesn’t turn around to look at him; he doesn’t even want to answer his question._  
   
 _Stéphane probably thinks that he was crying because of him, he probably thinks that his world revolves completely around him, and, quite frankly, this makes him angry. So many things make him angry, lately; almost everything._  
   
 _He can’t stand people, he can’t stand too many sounds, he can’t even stand the light of day. His life seems to be falling down an infinite ravine and he knows it will hurts when he finally reaches the ground, because he was too high in the sky, when he still_ believed _. Maybe he’s finally understood that he’s hopeless and that nothing will ever change that._  
   
 _“I’m a human being. Am I not allowed to cry?” it comes out a bit harsher than he intended it to be, but it’s probably better this way. He needs to be cold and detached, if he wants to get out of this._  
   
 _He feels the hand disappear from his back, and he hears him move; he still doesn’t turn around. This is a disaster. He asks himself what would happen if he made a run for the door. It probably wouldn’t seem very correct, but he doesn’t want to be. Who knows what people do when they’re heartbroken?_  
   
 _He doesn’t. He’s not heartbroken, he’s just dying; it might seem the same, but those_ are _two different things. He doesn’t know in which state his heart is, he never had time to think about it._  
   
 _Yes, it was hard being in love without being reciprocated, but, since the disease manifested, everything’s been so strange, like he’d been behind a glass cage for the past months, unable to feel anything and breaking apart at the same time._  
   
 _He gasps when he feels Stéphane’s arms around his waist and his head being rested on his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, and that surprises him, because he thought he would try to defend himself saying that it was simply a question and that he didn’t need to answer in such a rude manner._  
   
 _They stay still for some seconds, and who knows what goes through their heads in that moment. Deniss feels his fingers trace the skin of his arm and he looks down, noticing for the first time that he’s scratched with such force that he’s injured himself._  
   
 _He doesn’t know what’s happening to him, not everything. He knows he’s suffering, for many reasons he doesn’t want to remember, and that he’s dying. He doesn’t need to know anything more._  
   
 _“You don’t love me.” he whispers, without any intention of doing so. His voice sounds so broken and he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know why he’s said this, he can’t stand this situation anymore, this lie._  
   
 _Stéphane is so taken aback by that statement that he lets him go. Deniss gets on his feet and stares at him, without even blinking. That was not a question, but he’s waiting for an answer anyway. He needs to know, he needs him to tell him, he needs him to_ break his heart.  
   
 _His coach only stares back, and it can clearly be seen in his eyes that he doesn’t know what to do or what to say. He wants the truth, it’s simple as that._  
   
 _He frowns, as if he was asking himself where the affirmation came from, considering what’s happened last night. In the end, he sighs and drops his head into his hands. He probably doesn’t want to look at him while he says it._  
   
 _“No. I don’t.” he doesn’t look up again, he keeps looking down, because he probably feels guilty about what he’s done, right now, and, he probably should._  
   
 _“Then, you can’t save me.” he doesn’t add anything, he goes straight for the bathroom and closes the door behind his back, sliding on the ground and finally allowing himself to cry again, because, even if he’s always known it was merely an act, maybe, just maybe, he’d actually hoped there could be something that was real._  
   
 _– –_  
   
 _He’s walking fast, as if trying to escape from the pain growing inside his throat and this feeling of suffocation. At least, he did everything he could on the ice, without letting his sadness get the best of him, and he hopes this will help him get up on the ranking a little bit._  
   
 _Just a little bit, even if, probably, he won’t even know. He feels weak, every step takes a terrible effort, it’s like he was only dragging himself around, like a ghost who’s lost every hope to find peace._  
   
 _Every sound comes to his ears muffled once again, and everything seems foggy and confused. It’s like he was completely alone in the world, alone with the agony and those flowers he can’t stand anymore._  
   
 _He stops, feeling dizzy all of sudden, and turns around, looking for familiar eyes, hoping they’ll calm him down. They stare at each other for a moment, unsure about what to do. It’s been quite weird those last two days, like something had broken between them and at the same time the wall was built again; nothing too strange, anyway._  
   
 _Something like this was bound to happen, of course. Living like this is difficult: there are too many things unsaid, too many secrets –or, it would be better to say, there were. Right now, everything is out under the bright light of day, and it’s even worse._  
   
 _He tries to speak, but he ends coughing so powerfully that he falls on his knees immediately, without having time to realise what’s happening or to do something to stop himself. Every flower he coughs up hurts terribly and, at some point, he actually thinks he’s about to choke on the spot._  
   
 _He covers his mouth with his hand, but nothing can stop the flowers, this time. When he briefly opens his eyes, and looks down, he sees his fingers covered in blood; he can sense the taste of iron on his lips._  
   
 _He’s about to hit the floor, falling on his side, but Stéphane catches him for the thousandth time, and he’s glad to have him there to do that._  
   
 _What happens next is chaotic and misty: scared whispers and worried looks, and so much pain it’s impossible to describe it. But he’s used to pretend, he knows how simple it is to fool somebody into believing what you want them to believe (he knows and that’s why he didn’t fall for it, even if he hoped; but, as everybody says, hope is hard to kill, doesn’t matter what the facts are)._  
   
 _He doesn’t want to show him how afraid he really is of dying. Maybe he doesn’t want to show himself how afraid he is. Because he’s dying, and it doesn’t matter how much you pretend, you have to be scared; everybody is afraid to die, in any circumstance._  
   
 _But, for some parts, it’s true. He’s not scared, because he doesn’t want to be; he wants to show him that it doesn’t matter and that everything will be fine. That he’ll forget him and get up again, and keep living like he did before, keep loving his life and his job, without thinking about that stupid student of his who just had to fall in love with him. Making him understand that he needs to let him go, because it’s how it is and he can’t change it._  
   
 _As he swirls down into a deep darkness, he’s time to finally free the emotions he kept caged into his heart for all these months, which stopped him from living and were slowly killing him. After all, they’ve succeeded; and that’s fine. Maybe all they’ve ever wanted was to be free and they had to consume him to do so; and that’s okay._  
   
 _It’s the end and he knows it. He’s not choking yet, but it’s time to go, he literally can’t bear it anymore. He’s positive his lungs must be filled with so many flowers that this time he won’t be able to get them out; they’re stuck there, they’ve taken control of his body and they’re destroying it._  
   
 _His hand falls on the ground, and he closes his eyes, and he knows this time he won’t open them again;_ ever _again. He lets out a shuddered sigh and…_  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, uh, another cliffhanger with a little bit of cliché, perfect.


	7. All the stars in the sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hello there! I'm back with the last chapter and a sappy ending (just so you know, I like French; and clichés, but that was clear). I think this story developed a bit too fast, but here we are anyway, somehow. 
> 
> There's little information about what happened between the last chapter and this one, but just go with it. 
> 
> I hope you like it and thanks for sticking with me until the end :)

And…  
   
He wakes up. He doesn’t open his eyes, he has not idea of where he might be; but he wakes up, god knows from what.  
   
He isn’t dead? He must be. Maybe there’s actually another life after death? He wouldn’t know; he’s never died before.  
   
He frowns and tries to understand where the hell he is. His senses are numbed; thus, it results a bit difficult.  
   
He can feel something soft and relatively cold under one of his hands. Sheets? They must be. He can’t move the other hand in any way, something is stopping him. He doesn’t understand what it is.  
   
He’s really confused. What is going on? He’s supposed to be dead; he knows he was dying. He never felt like that before; like all his strength was leaving him, like he was being drained of his energies and like he was sinking to the bottom of the ocean, after too much time spent trying to swim back up and to save himself from his decided destiny.  
   
He opens his eyes slowly, and gets blinded by a bright light for some seconds. He blinks a couple of times and starts to put the scenery into focus. There’s a lot of white, he’s sure of it. All the walls around him are an annoyingly intense white and they’re hurting his pupils.  
   
He closes his eyes again, incapable of standing all this light. Well, he’s most definitely alive; that’s something he’s sure of. This is too realistic to be just a dream. It’s probably an hospital.  
   
He doesn’t even try to think about what could have happened after he passed out. He rests his head against the pillows and just concentrates on the distant sounds he hears and on the darkness. The pain in his throat has disappeared, but he doesn’t pay too much attention to it; his head is messy right now.  
   
He almost starts to doze off again, when he feels a movement near him and his hand gets released and is free to move again. It’s in that moment that he realises: his hand was being held by someone, and that’s the reason why he couldn’t move it. And it’s not difficult to imagine who the person next to him is.  
   
He feels warm fingers being pressed on his cheek again and he opens his eyes as fast as he can, scared that he’ll fall back asleep and will never wake up again.  
   
Stéphane only stares at him for a moment, an unreadable expression on his face. As he tries to focus on his features, he notices that the bright light is gone: the room is immersed into a bluish gleam and, far away in the hallway, a neon is flickering in a terribly annoying way; he doesn’t know how the scenery changed so much in such a short period of time, but he’s too tired to ask himself all these questions at once.  
   
His coach keeps looking at him like he didn’t know what to say or what to do. It’s so difficult to understand what he’s thinking, but maybe it’s better not to know. There’s a reason why he’s alive and he’s not sure he wants to know, even if he can guess what happened.  
   
After all, he forced him to remove the disease. To remove his feelings, to rip off his love without consent. He doesn’t know how he feels, he doesn’t know if his emotions are gone, he only knows that his hand isn’t burning him like it did all the previous times; it just feels warm, because it objectively is, but, apart from that, it doesn’t cause a strong reaction in him.  
   
He feels a surge of panic rise in him: no, he doesn’t want it to be like that. It’s not fair; he would rather have died than to live like this, without feelings, without the ability to love. A life like this is horrible and he doesn’t want to live it.  
   
“Why am I alive?” he asks, and his voice comes out rough, probably because he hasn’t talked in a long time (or maybe, it’s one of the consequence of the intervention, but he doesn’t want to think about it).  
   
Stéphane doesn’t answer right away, it’s like he was a broken record, stuck in the same part for the rest of time; he just keeps gaping at him like he was some sort of incredible work of art who needs to be stared at, before something terrible happens to it and all its history disappears in the sea of time. But he’s not a work of art, he’s a disaster. And he really needs an answer right now, not blank and emotionless eyes.  
   
While he waits for it, he decides to reciprocate the gawk, and starts noticing things about him that he’d missed before: he looks like he’d missed hours of sleep just to stay with him; he’s dark marks under his eyes and his hair is in disarray, and it’s clear that he’s been worried a lot about him, but that’s just normal.  
   
“I was dying, wasn’t I?” he tries, hoping that this time he’ll take him out of his frozen state and that he’ll get a responsive answer. He’s tired and he’s lost all his energies and he doesn’t want to fight with him again for nothing. Fortunately, his coach shakes his head slightly and seems to snap out of it, finally fully looking at him and not lost in some obscure thought.  
   
“I think you were.” he says, slowly. And there’s not a single trace of coldness in his voice; he feels his soul being flooded with this tenderness, that can barely be contained in that simple phrase.  
   
He doesn’t think he’s ever heard him say something so insignificant with that much fondness and this actually scares him, because he starts asking himself what he doesn’t have the courage to tell him. Maybe that it’s all over because everything is gone, everything he ever gave him is gone (his heart is gone and can never be replaced).  
   
He doesn’t know what to do; maybe, some parts of him want to run away, as far away as he can from him, because he can’t stand everything that is happening. He doesn’t understand: he doesn’t feel anything at all, but, at the same, he feels _everything_ , it’s so difficult to give a name to this emotion.  
   
He looks down at his hand, with which he’s, without realising it, started to grip on the sheets, and he bites his bottom lip.  
   
“You’ve removed the disease, haven’t you?” he barely whispers the question, so much he’s afraid he won’t even hear his desperate words.  
   
He feels the tears start to swell into his eyes, but he doesn’t want to cry for what he’s lost so ridiculously. Perhaps he’ll actually learn to love again, with time. They say time heals everything, but he’s not sure if it is possible in this case.  
   
An awkward silence falls between them and the only thing that can be heard is the heaviness of their breaths, and it terrifies him. He nervously looks up, still playing with the piece of fabric between his fingers.  
   
What he sees in Stéphane’s eyes is an incredible incertitude, like he was looking for the right words but couldn’t find them; on his lips, he can almost see a mocking “yes” ready to take off and destroy his life.  
   
At the last second, when he’s sure there’s no hope for him and he’s about to turn his head again and cry silently for what he lost, he feels his hand take hold of his own again, and, for a second, they just look at each other.  
   
“No. I didn’t.” to say he’s surprised, would be an understatement. He’s shocked, totally and unequivocally shocked. It doesn’t make any sense.  
   
He should be dead, there’s no way he could have survived that attack.  
   
He knew he was dying, he could _feel_ the life leave his body. And he doesn’t feel like he’s about to suffocate any second. The only solution has to be that he’s just lying, just trying to spare him the pain; it must be like that.  
   
He can’t find another explanation. His mind cannot coherently think about something else; it just doesn’t make sense. He almost jumps out of bed when he feels his hands on his face once again, and he asks himself why he keeps doing it, out of nowhere. But, at least, he notices something.  
   
This time, his cheeks burn again, and he feels like his fingers were melting his skin, making him go crazy. It’s stronger than everything ever before, it’s like he was being incinerated by that simple and insignificant touch. He almost expects the pain to come back, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t.  
   
His love is still there, perfectly intact and igniting his soul like a star; it’s indestructible and will last endlessly, without being touched by time and space. He doesn’t understand.  
   
He glances at Stéphane and he can see the same fire that is consuming his heart reflected in his dark eyes, and maybe it lights a spark of hope, which gets lost into the pyre. He feels the sudden urge to do something terribly stupid and irrational.  
   
And, well, this time, nothing’s there to stop him. He leans forward so fast their noses bumps together and kisses him, without thinking about the consequences, not caring about where they are or about who could see them. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is this unstoppable natural disaster that he’s trying to control to no avail.  
   
What surprises him even more is that his coach actually kisses him back, but this time, it feels real and not a desperate attempt to save him, not knowing any better way; this time, they’re destroying each other, they’re burning in this inferno they’ve created.  
   
He senses him wrapping his arms around his body and holding him closer, like he couldn’t wait anymore, like he wanted this for a long time, just like he did. He puts his hand into his hair, and, again, it feels incredibly silky against his skin, as he pulls at the strands with his fingers. They separate and it’s like suffocating another time.  
   
Stéphane doesn’t move away, only touches his forehead with his own and closes his eyes, like trying to breath in every second of what’s happening. If Deniss concentrates hard enough, he can almost remember his tears falling on his face, the day before, as he was dying in his arms, even if he’d already passed out when that happened (well, if that actually happened); and it makes perfect sense, so much it actually scares him for some seconds.  
   
He thought that, had he died, everything would be fixed and everything would go back to normal. He doesn’t comprehend how he could think something so stupid and incoherent. How did he think that he would have been able to continue living without him, knowing that it was his fault if he’d died? Maybe he just thought that he would have been better off without a failure like him, without a foolish boy without him.  
   
Only now he realises how naïve of him that was. It’s like, through that kiss, he’d passed to him all the agony he was keeping inside his heart, waiting for him, scared he would never wake up again and that all the words he wanted to say would be lost in the nothingness of time and the insignificance of life; fearing he’d lost his chance.  
   
His arm is still wrapped around his waist and their fingers are interlaced. This is so incredibly similar to the situation they found themselves in a few nights before, but also incredibly different. There are no more lies, there isn’t a trace of pain, if not the one left by the fear of losing something you never had; there’s nothing fake. This is so real it’s terrifying. Neither of them knows where this will go, but maybe, it doesn’t matter at all.  
   
“Why am I alive?” he asks in a low voice, a grin creeping on his face. He knows the answer, now, but he wants –needs -to hear him say it, it’s almost a physical need. After the hell he’d to live for all these months, it’s what he deserves.  
   
It’s also scary to think that he had to almost die in his arms to make him realise the truth he probably tried to keep even from himself, incapable of admitting what was obvious. All this situation hasn’t just been a test to his ability to survive through the pain of an unrequited love and the one given by the flowers; this has been a test for both of them. To their ability to be honest with each other, to their ability to go through everything together (doesn’t mean _how_ that together is meant).  
   
They tore down that invisible wall between them, and, even if it was terribly difficult, it was worth it, he’s sure of that. Maybe his love was born in the strangest of circumstances, but it’s real, nothing has ever felt this real in his life before.  
   
This is not a single star burning alone at the centre of the universe, alone and cold; this is a whole new galaxy creating in his soul, breaking him in half but making him feel more alive than he’s ever felt. This is not going to be easy, but he’s take anything after the disease.  
   
He hears him sigh loudly, like he was unsure what to say, like he was afraid somebody could hear him, like he was afraid he was doing the wrong thing.  
   
Deniss caresses his face with the tips of his fingers, not wanting to startle him; he only wants to tell him that he doesn’t need to be scared, that everything will be fine, because they’re stronger than everything (yes, doesn’t matter how much cliché this might sound).  
   
Stéphane kisses him again, lightly, before whispering:  
   
“ _Je t’aime, chéri. Je t’aime._ _”_  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheesy, right? Okay, bye. 
> 
> Sorry for eventual mistakes that escaped my supervision.


End file.
